Page 13 of Tell Me I'm Enough

I’m not leaving her.

I stay lying on her until I feel her skin go cold against mine.

I look up as the last of the sun is going down outside. The room faces the backyard, where several big bushes sit right under the window. I see something fluttering on top of one, and then it lands right onto the window screen—a beautiful reddish colored butterfly. It just rests there, wings slowly opening and closing.

The tears don’t stop. They pour as I try to steady my breath.

“Goodbye, Mom…” I whisper, wiping at my face. “I love you.”

4

Mason

“Stand up and stop crying, Mason. Hell, maybe it’s a good thing she’s gone. She made you so weak.”

I stand up, wiping the tears with my sleeve, but I can’t make myself move my hand away from my mom’s casket.

My dad’s hand squeezes my shoulder—a silent reminder to pull myself together, that I’m embarrassing him.

I stare down at the dark-wood casket and get even more annoyed. She would have hated this…all of this. She wanted to be cremated. She told me. She told him. But she didn’t have a will, so he got to make all of the decisions for her funeral.

She wanted to be cremated—he had an open casket ceremony. She wanted a small, family-only service—he invited everyone he knew and used this to gain sympathy from businessmen. She loved magnolias—he filled the funeral home with ugly, obnoxious ranunculuses. She wanted me happy…he’s doingeverythingin his power to destroy me.

There are so many people here it’s hard to breathe—friends, family, neighbors, business partners. All people who haven’t been around in years, especially the last two. Yet they’re all standing around wiping away fake tears and acting like it’stheirhearts that were just ripped out of their chests.

It’s easy to show up to a funeral and act sad. It’snotas easy to show up for someone on their darkest days. And none of these people have been around for the last two years when she needed them.

I’m starting to understand now that’s what most people do. They’ll show up for the pity and the praise, but never when it actually matters.

She wouldn’t have wanted them here, and neither do I. My mom loved hard. Anyone close to her knew that. But in our world…in the world of money and business politics…there’s a lot of fake love and ass-kissing.

We hated it. Anytime we had to go to events with my dad, we always kept to ourselves and complained about how much we didn’t want to be there. Now he’s using her funeral like it’s just another cocktail hour to make new connections, and I’m just supposed to be his puppet—ain’t happening.

The only time my dad has talked to me today was to rush me out of the house and tell me to stop crying so he could introduce me to people I don’t know and don’tcareto know.

He’s standing next to me, talking to everyone who comes up to view her and nudging me to smile at them, but I stopped smiling fifteen people ago. I don’t care if it upsets him. I honestly don’t even know if he’s noticed. What Idoknow is that I just want to be here with her before they put her in the ground today. These are my last moments with her, and I don’t want to share them with a bunch of strangers.

I turn back and place my hand on her casket, taking in the way they tried to do her up. Again, she would have hated that.She rarely ever wore makeup. She always joked that she had the features people tried to paint on—rosy cheeks, soft freckles, a strong jawline, blue-green eyes, and natural blonde hair that she always kept shoulder-length and styled.

I wish I could grab a wipe and take all the makeup off, but people would look at me like I was crazy if I did that right now, so I just take her hand and close my eyes, trying to think up every memory of the face I remember instead.

Every memory I see in my head is her smiling and laughing with me. Those are the ones I want to keep. I hope they’re the ones that never fade.

I’ve heard that people can start to forget what someone looked like or how they sounded once they’ve been gone long enough, and that scares me.

God, please don’t let me forget her.

My eyes open when I feel my dad’s hand clap my shoulder. I turn to see him laughing with a man and shaking his hand, then he turns to me, telling me to say hi.

I don’t know this man. I’ve never seen him before, and I’m so sick of playing pretend on the last day I have with my mom.

I don’t know what takes over me, but the filters are gone, and the anger is coming out.

The man holds his hand out to shake mine, and I just stare at it.

“You don’t deserve to be here,” I tell him.

My dad turns to me so fast. “Mason,” he hisses.